


Anterograde

by TriscuitsandSoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Beta Peter, Clubbing, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Good Peter, Love Confessions, M/M, Malia Doesn't Exist, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7773658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Loud noises and flashing lights weren't really Stiles thing. Maybe when he was younger, before loud noises and flashing lights meant emanate danger; before they reminded him of gunshots and Molotov cocktails. Now all it meant was bad smells, drunk people, and serving as everyone’s favorite designated driver.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Stiles is drugged while out at a club, it's fortunate he has a werewolf body guard to protect him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anterograde

Loud noises and flashing lights weren't really Stiles thing. Maybe when he was younger, before loud noises and flashing lights meant emanate danger; before they reminded him of gunshots and Molotov cocktails. Now all it meant was bad smells, drunk people, and serving as everyone’s favorite designated driver.

He leaned back and took another sip of his beer. The club Lydia chose wasn't exactly the most luxurious or high class of places, but when could a small group of recently turned twenty-somethings get into anywhere high class or luxurious? He cast his eyes over the crowd of rhythmically writhing individuals, dancing way too close together and packed so tightly it was hard to make out faces.

He could see Scott back in the corner, making out with Allison. From somewhere off to the side Isaac and Derek danced in their awkward way. Erica and Boyd were nowhere to be seen, probably having snuck off somewhere for a quick make out session before they rejoined the group.

Stiles sat at the bar idly sipping his beer and playing with his cell phone. At least no strangers had tried to grope or flirt with him yet. As if on cue a boy about his age, with blonde hair and blue eyes sat down next to him.

“Hey there,” the guy said, flashing a bright smile.

Stiles returned a weak one of his own, along with a small wave. “Hey,” he greeted. He looked down at his phone, disinterested in continuing the conversation any further.

“What's your name?” The guy had to shout above the music.

“Unavailable,” Stiles said, taking a deliberately long sip of his beer.

The man frowned. “Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

Stiles sighed. “Just life. Okay?” He wasn't opposed to a relationship, god knows it would do him some good to get out every once in a while but he was still content to wallow in his own misery, and a meaningless one night stand held no appeal for him. The one person he would have wanted a relationship with was currently, and probably would forever, be on the 'do not date' list, thanks to past murder transgressions. Even if he weren't, Peter was much older and much more attractive to find a scrawny, trouble-prone, young thing like him appealing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” the guy frowned, unperturbed by his cold reception. “Someone break up with you or something?”

“No,” Stiles scoffed and put down his drink. “We were never together.” He looked back out at the dance floor. Erica and Boyd were back, with Ericas’ hair looking ten times worse than when she'd left. Despite it all, she still managed to look good. Boyd was grinning like a love-struck idiot as they danced with his hands on her waist.

The guy laughed. “That sounds like you want to talk about it.”

Stiles took an unusually long sip of his beer to keep from answering. “Dude, I really don't. Just back off, okay?”

The guy frowned a little.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you mad. Can I make it up to you by buying you another drink?” The mans brilliant smile returned. The noise died down a little as the song switched from one upbeat pop number to the next. He still didn't know the lyrics, even after hearing it a thousand times over the radio.

“I've already got one,” he held up his beer. “Thanks, though.” He lost some of the heat in his voice, it wasn't this guys fault he'd been stuck in unrequited love after unrequited love since the day he started elementary school. He looked back over at the places his friends had been. They'd been swallowed up by the crowd for the most part, but he could still make out flashes of leather jackets and the girls bright leggings.

“Can I at least sit beside you so I don't look so lonely and desperate?”

“Sure,” Stiles chuckled a little, letting down his guard a little. Not enough to tell this stranger his name, but enough to share an enclosed space. He took another sip of his drink and pretended to text for several minutes. Mostly he just typed random characters into the note taking app. He noticed that the man beside him hardly drank his own beer.

“So if you don't want to talk, and you don't want drinks, what brought you here?”

Stiles sighed at the awkward attempt at conversation. “Man, you just don't let up, do you? I came here with some friends.”

The man frowned. “Where are they now? You look pretty much by yourself.”

Stiles gulped down the remainder of his beer to stave off answering for a little longer. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve as the liquid burned its way down his throat.

“I got stuck being the designated driver. I'm _always_ the designated driver. They'll be back . . . eventually.” He rolled his eyes. If they even came back at all, it wouldn't be the first time they'd raced off into the woods for a midnight run in their shifted forms, leaving him behind to round up the remaining parties. He just hoped tonight wouldn't be a night he had to drag a very drunken Derek through the parking lot while Isaac stumbled along behind and complained. _You're like a vampire, but for happiness,_ he'd moan as the headlights in the parking garage assaulted his vision.

Whoever thought to make and market werewolf beer . . . well, they had no sympathy for people like Stiles, the humans of the pack left to clean up the mess.

Two words snapped him back to reality. “That blows,” the blonde mumbled. “I say leave 'em behind; go out and have some fun for yourself.”

Stiles shook his head. “They're good people, they just . . . ?” he struggled for his words. It was getting harder to think. He blamed it on the seizure quality lights.

He looked back to the crowd. He couldn't make out Scott, or Allison, Lydia, Derek, Isaac. Come to think of it, he couldn't make out anyone, not even the strangers. He could see the vague outline of bodies moving around on the floor, but none of them would focus. He blinked several times but it did nothing.

The blonde moved closer to whisper in his ear. “Let's get out of here, okay?” His voice wasn't the same friendly hush, it was husky and dark, and it sent a shiver down Stiles' spine.

“What? No,” he shook his head. He felt himself moving but he didn't remember getting up. The walls and ceiling swam around him. The guy was pulling him towards the exit door. His hand slid down his waist and over to the small of his back.

“W-wait,” Stiles tried to say. His speech came out slurred. He felt like he was drunk but he didn't even finish his beer. “Nooo.”

“You guys okay over here?” a bouncer approached them. Stiles shook his head and tried to shove away from the mans chest.

“No,” he managed to gasp out. He tried to take a few steps back but he stumbled. The bouncer caught him and passed him back into the arms of the smiling stranger. _I don't know him,_ he tried to say it aloud but his lips wouldn't part.

“He's just a little drunk. I'm gonna take him home, now.” Stiles furrowed his brow but his tongue felt flat, limp, and dry in his mouth. Before he knew it the bouncer was holding the door open for them as they stumbled from the building. The outside air hit his face in a refreshing chill, just enough to help bring him back to lucidity.

“No! I don't know you.”

“Shut up!” The man hissed. Stiles fell onto his knees as the man pushed him. His knees and face hit the ground harsh enough to scrape. He cried out in pain. He could feel the painful, wet, sting of blood on his cheek. He tried to scramble away but his hands and feet wouldn't work right. He felt like his body had been completely rewired. Nothing was moving as it should have.

Stiles looked up at the wall. The mans shadow stalked and grew menacingly towards him. Behind it, another shadow rose.

“He doesn't belong to you,” Stiles heard a different voice say with a snarl. He looked back just in time to see a dark figure grab the man and bash his head violently into the wall. At first, he thought it was Derek, then he realized the wolf was too tall and the eyes weren't quite right.

He could do nothing but lay completely limp on the ground, watching as the man was thrashed, tossed, and broken by the infuriated werewolf. He heard a scream that was cut off as the mans head violently met the wall of the club. His body was dropped carelessly behind a dumpster.

Then the wolves eyes were back on Stiles, barely visible in his swimming vision.

As he grew closer the familiar features of Peter Hales face were revealed to him. The man crouched by his side and gingerly took his face in his hands. His brow furrowed upward, his lips moved in a steady rhythm but Stiles heard no sound.

He blinked and tried to refocus. A faint noise buzzed in his ears.

Peters hand firmly pressed against his cheek and the pain he felt throbbing in his head and on his body started to ebb. The man's arm developed thin black veins that traveled underneath the surface of his skin. His hand was warm and soft, he might have let out a quiet whimper. It wasn't fair that anyone should feel that warm or soft.

“. . . .-Iles? Stiles?” Peter said something else but Stiles couldn't make out what it was. He closed his eyes unwillingly.

*

Stiles' head was a throbbing mess of nerves. It ached every time he moved. His head pounded and his body felt sore in odd places. He tried to move his head to the side and winced when pain shot through his cheek. Distantly the obscured memory of getting shoved onto the ground came to him, and not much else.

He opened his eyes weakly. He didn't recognize the room he was in, but he did realize he was laying on a sofa with a cold compress on his forehead. He blinked and tried to sit up, but his body wouldn't open.

“Good to see you're back with us,” Peter said, leaning over the back of the couch.

Stiles greeted him with a groan.

“I feel like shit,” he croaked, nearly wincing at the sound of his glass-on-sandpaper voice.

“You look like shit,” Peter agreed. He held out a water bottle, which Stiles gratefully took. He uncapped it and gulped down a generous amount of cool water. It did little to soothe his aching throat, but at least it made the hammers in his head soften just a touch.

“Thanks. You're beautiful,” he said once he'd finished with the water. He felt so out of it he forgot to add the sarcastic inflection. Something unreadable crossed Peters’ face.

“Thank you,” he said, recovering quickly. “It’s good to be appreciated.” His lips curled up in a smirk.

“What happened?” Stiles asked, propping himself up on his elbows.

Peter was momentarily silent, considering. “You got drugged,” he answered. “A man at the club tried to take you away from us. You don't need to worry about him now.”

“What?” Stiles furrowed his brow. “No, I . . . I don't remember getting drugged.” The cold compress fell from his forehead as he craned his neck up to look Peter in the eyes. He winced as another splitting pain threatened to rip his skull open.

“Well, you wouldn't. That's what the drugs are designed to do.” He leaned over the back of the sofa and placed a warm hand against Stiles uninjured cheek. The pain drained like water in a funnel out of his body and into the werewolves palm. Stiles exhaled in relief as the hammering in his brain ceased. “Don't worry, though, as I said- the nasty man who hurt you is gone now.”

For some reason, the sadistic glint in Peters' eyes didn't scare him.

“Where is everyone?” Stiles asked.

Peter thumbed lightly over his cheek, then the hand was pulled away. “After I gave them the lecture of a lifetime they all ran home.”

“But I drove them.”

“I think they called a cab. You know I really don't care what happened to them. I'm more concerned about what could have happened to you.” Peter glowered.

“Were you following me?” Stiles asked. “How did you know I was there?”

“. . . Lydia told me you would be.”

“I had no idea you two were still on close terms?” Stiles raised a brow. The idea of Lydia and Peter sharing a casual, friendly conversation about their weekend plans struck him as a tad odd.

“We're not. She hardly wants anything to do with me.”

“Then why-?”

“Because she cares about you.”

“So she sent in a babysitter? How did she know I'd be in trouble?” the gears in his head started turning as soon as the words left his mouth. “Oh wait, banshee thing, right. Well, then why did she let me go at all?”

Peter sighed and walked around the sofa to sit on the other end of it. “She didn't know you would be in trouble, she just told me you would be there.”

“Well someone's being cryptic today.” A nerve of suspicion itched in Stiles' brain. “Then why were you at the club?” He searched in his mind for a reason Peter Hale, resident lone wolf, would be caught standing in the alleyway of a shady werewolf club. He could think of a few, none of them pleasant or likely.

“I believe I've already put my cards on the table, Stiles,” Peter hummed.

“What are you talking about? What cards? What table?” He worried his lip as he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch.

Peter just stared at him for a minute more. “Lydia said you could be oblivious. Sweet, but oblivious.”

“Again, more with this Lydia stuff! For not being close you guys seem to talk about me an awful lot. Care to share with the rest of the class, Peter?” He tapped his foot on the ground impatiently. He couldn't stand vague. He couldn't stand secret. Not anymore, not when tight lips had almost cost him his life more than once.

Peter paused. Then, with a devilish smile, he closed in on him.“I've said it before, I will say it again. I _like_ you, Stiles.” The space between their legs closed, their shoulders touched, and Peters’ arm moved up to drape around him like a muscled scarf.

“Yes, you like me,” Stiles rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to shake off the arm of the teasing wolf. His eyes widened as the weight of the words hit him. He snapped his head to the side so fast it felt like whiplash. “Wait, like me or . . . like me, like me?”

“Do we have to be such school boys about it?” Peter tsk'd. “I _like you_ , like you.”

“As in date, and romance, and all that?” His heart fluttered, and there was no doubt in his mind that Peter could hear it; especially not after he _smirked_ like that.

“Yes, 'like date and romance and all that',” said Peter.

Stiles barked a sharp laugh. “Well, it's about time you said something about it.”

“I did say something about it. Years ago, in fact.”

“I thought you just meant, you know, 'I like you enough not to murder you in a parking garage' kind of way! Not the 'I like you, I want to kiss you,' kind of way.”

“Well then, let me try again – I like you, Stiles.” The narrow space that still came between them was swiftly and efficiently eradicated as Peters’ lips pressed against Stiles. His hands slid to his waist and held him tight.

Stiles face went pale as the last of the alcohol left in his system exited through his mouth. 

* 

“I'm so fucking sorry,” he whimpered. He pulled the blanket up to cover his face from the wolfs disgruntled stare. 

Peter sighed and stilled the hand that raked through Stiles hair. After they had both spent a rather generous amount of time in separate bathrooms Peter dragged Stiles onto his bed and laid him down to rest. He was surprised he hadn't been swiftly placed in a cab back to his own apartment. 

He cursed himself for the sudden onset of nausea, right when he'd been about to finally get laid by the person he'd had a crush on for seven years. 

“I suppose it's partially my fault,” Peter said, “I knew you weren't feeling well.”

“Still. I am so, so fucking sorry. If I could have warned you or something I-” 

“Hush. You ruined our first kiss, please don't ruin our first time in bed.” 

“First?” Stiles asked hopefully. 

“Oh yes. Obviously, we have to make up for it. Perhaps, when you're feeling better I could take you somewhere a little more refined than a sleazy night club?” 

“Yes. God, yes.” Stiles enthusiastically agreed. He nodded quickly but stopped when the feeling of uneasy reappeared in his stomach. 

Peter chuckled and kissed him on the forehead.


End file.
